Angela Cole first appeared as a supporting character in
The Lost Girl of Avignon
. I'd toyed for a while with giving her a story of her own. And, well, this is what happened.
With endless thanks to
Jackie.Hikaru
for being my sounding box and often-abused critic. If you haven't read her works then I'm going to think unkind things about you.
🙛☨🙙
I stepped out of the slow drizzle and into the muggy, dim comfort of the Watchman's Arms. I tugged my shawl free from my hair and hung it on a hook, then slung my damp navy wool watchcoat over it. I pulled off my hairband and shook out my ponytail. Then I closed my eyes for a moment, and just focussed on pretending to be alive.
Funerals were awful. Standing around, getting rained on more often than not, listening to the slow, damp splat of soil onto cedar or oak or pine, with what family and friends there might be staring brokenly back over the yawning grave at me and those few others like me who stood, watching wordlessly as our loved ones - brothers, sisters, mentors, friends - were lowered into the muddy loam of this Britannic Isle and feeling every blame-filled glance as if it were a lance levelled at our hearts.
Funerals were awful. I hoped there'd be no more of them for a while.
I opened my eyes and made my way slowly over the worn floorboards, listening to the creak of each old friend as it accepted and released my weight.
Val felt me coming; she turned and somehow managed a smile for me.
"Hey, Angie," she said.
Her eyes were red; she'd been crying, of course. She always cried for us. She was one of the few who still did. She was soft despite everything, and gentle despite her nature, and for these and many other reasons I had always loved her without thought or rhyme, without hope or reason.
"We sent him off properly," I said. "He'd have approved of it. Everyone who could be here in time was. He had the guard he deserved."
"Stupid old bastard," she said in that smoky tone of disapproval she did so very well. "I told him to watch his back out there. Stupid, stubborn old bastard..."
I reached out and clasped her cool, alabaster hand between mine, pulling her forward over the counter so that so that I could press my cheek to hers.
I felt rather than heard the sigh she gave, and almost welcomed the old, familiar ache of hopeless longing that always lay there deep within me.
"We all know what's waiting for us," I whispered. "We all know we won't die in our beds. We know what we're doing when we take up the sword and cross and mantle. We do this because we have to, Val. He was a brave man. He went down fighting. He was valorous; he was victorious. And he was never greedy; he would not have asked for a better end."
"It isn't right," she answered as she pulled back and wiped her eyes. "Someone else should take a turn for a change."
The thin, blue-enameled heptagram glinted at her throat; the fine gold chain it hung from copper-red in the muted lamplight.
I stared at it as I ordered my thoughts.
"Who?" I sighed at last. "We're all that's left these days."
"I know that. But it's still not fair," she repeated, softer this time.
"Life's not fair," I agreed. "If it were, James Bligh would be having his pint in the corner tonight. But it's not, and it isn't. But that's just how it is."
"Amen," she whispered. She brushed at her eyes again. "Well then. What can I get you? A glass of your usual?"
"No. I'm going to do it properly. A Laphroaig, please. In fact, you'd better make it a double - and some water. I'm going to give the old man the send-off he deserves."
"Amen," she repeated. "Jamie'd have liked that."
I took my tumbler to Bligh's Nook and sat in my usual seat opposite where he'd have hulked, with his shaggy grey fringe masking his warm, amused eyes which would always crinkle at the corners as he told me the day's "Events".
I raised the amber liquid to his silent shade and took a dram, letting the rich flavours of his native land overwhelm my palate.
"Here's to you, old friend," I whispered when I could. "Give Saint Michael my regards, will you? Tell my mum I miss her more than anything, and that I'll see her again soon."
I do not cry, as a rule. I never seem to have had the knack. But my chest still ached, and my eyes still felt gritty, and I did have to blink far more than I normally would have.
James Bligh had been like a father to me. Better than a father, really - because he'd been present in my life every day from before I was six years old and had never, ever shirked his duty. He'd stood beside me when we lowered my mother into the embrace of the earth, and the comfortable, familiar weight of his hand had been on my shoulder as I'd not managed to shed even one single tear for her.
But now.... my conscience had died. My rock of ages was gone. I'd never again smell the awful sandalwood shaving cream he'd favoured, nor hear the soft burr of his whisky-weathered voice anywhere this side of Eternity. And now there was a black, gnawing emptiness inside me now that he was no longer there.
So I sat alone at first, and drank his native whisky, and missed him with every breath.
Slowly my brothers and sisters came to the Watchman's Arms and joined his wake; slowly the noise swelled. Men and women ducked in out of the cold, and soft voices rose in a melange of accents Occidental and Oriental as we mingled and comforted one another and gave our friend his final farewell. We sang his favourite songs, and as midnight swung around we linked hands and Val led us as we sang his
Requiem
.
The Latin was archaic - and as always that made the words more powerful and the pain of loss more real.
It's a thing we do for our own. It's a thing we've done for a long, long time. It's a thing my brothers and sisters will do for me - if I am by some dark and twisted curse not the last of us to fall.
It was early in the morning when I watched the final remaining member of my order bow to Val and take leave.
It was just me and Val now, and even she was fading.
I watched as she fumbled the final bottle into its place. I watched her as she wiped down the counter top one last habitual time. I helped her into her coat and walked to the door with her. She let me out first and slipped out behind me, sealing and warding the ancient ironwood portal of our unofficial Chapter house behind her.
She ran her fingers through the wayward locks of her copper-brown hair and managed a ghost of a smile for me.
"Well. At least that's done and done well."
"Thank you," I said. "Now he can rest."
"May he find peace," she breathed, voice tight with the pain she would carry onwards.
I spread my arms; she came in for a tight, lingering hug.
For a bitter moment I felt the old temptation; the desire to offer... more... of myself. But I knew she did not think of me that way. So as always I resisted, and mourned the future I would never get to have.
Val stepped back, her hands on my shoulders, her eyes as ageless and sombre as the graveside at dusk.
"Be careful, Angela," she said. "Please. I will never be ready to lose you as well."
"I will be careful as I can be. You know that."
"You'd better be."
She stared at me for a moment. Then she pulled my head to her and kissed my brow with her sweet cedar-scented breath before she turned and walked, slowly, away.
I watched, heart aching beneath my ribs, waiting for the moment when she'd cross the thin line of silver moonlight and I'd glimpse the intangible glory of her wings.
And she paused and glanced over her shoulder to make sure that I was watching.
It was our little ritual, and rituals are what make me me.
🙛☨🙙
